


Stutter

by barthelme



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 06:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15858312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barthelme/pseuds/barthelme
Summary: Cesc likes Sergio, just not enough to have his number or send him a Christmas card.





	Stutter

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in 2010; I'm moving all of my fic to one place.

Sergio picks Cesc up from the airport. It’s not a big deal; Cesc likes Sergio, just not enough to have his number or send him a Christmas card. Or, well, enough to know if Sergio celebrates Christmas. But, he likes him. He gives good hugs. Tells funny jokes. Still, when he gets off the plane, looks for Iker, and sees Sergio, his heartbeat drops, stutters, races.

“Hey,” Cesc says, clutching his carry on. It’s a small red duffel bag he’s had since he was eight. Seams around the zippers are wearing thin and there’s a hole forming by one of the straps. “I didn’t expect—”

“Iker’s sick. Been puking all day.” Cesc grimaces. He’s been around Iker when he’s sick, and it’s not pretty. He grunts and seems to throw up with his entire body, refuses to drink water. Dry heaves.

“Oh.”

“Do you have any bags?” Sergio eyes Cesc’s small carry on as if thinking, ‘I bet he’s going to wear the same jeans for a week.’

“Yeah, just one. I can meet you outside if you—” Before he can finish, Sergio is heading toward luggage claim.

The drive to Iker’s is nearly silent. Cesc thinks he should probably ask Sergio how the season’s going, but he doesn’t want Sergio to actually know he has no clue. He should, what with Iker and all, but he’s been busy. Preoccupied. And Iker doesn’t call him regularly anymore, either. Maybe Iker’s preoccupied, too. Cesc is only sure about El Clasico. He assumes they’re doing well. But he doesn’t know enough to speak. Instead, Cesc fiddles with his duffle bag.

“How long are you going to be in town?” Sergio asks, finally. They’re on Iker’s block. Some of the houses are decorated, and the street lamps have lights hanging between them.

“A few days.”

“Cool. Iker needs the break.”

He isn’t sure if Iker’s told Sergio or not. Cesc realizes it looks suspicious to everyone, but no one has said a word. At first, they tried to keep it secret, but realized it looked even worse that way. Cesc never really cared, but Iker.

Well.

“Yeah, he’s been sounding stressed lately.”

Sergio nods, flicks on his blinker. Cesc never thought Sergio would be a careful driver, but he is. Iker’s house isn’t decorated, but there’s a small wreath on the door. “He is. It’s getting worse, I think. But, you know.” Sergio shrugs, puts the car in park. “Do you need help with your bags?”

Cesc shakes his head. “No, but hey, thanks for picking me up. I could’ve just taken a taxi or something.”

“No worries,” Sergio smiles. “I needed to get out of the house, anyways.”

“Well, thanks. I’ll see you later, maybe?”

“Probably.”

Cesc’s about to close the door when Sergio says, “Oh, and if Iker doesn’t answer the door, go around back. The screen door’s unlocked.”

Iker does answer the door. He’s wrapped in an ivory blanket, like the kind that would be on a hospital bed. He has it covering his head, but thin wisps of hair stick out. His cheeks look more hollowed than usual, his lips chapped, skin yellow. “Ok, Iker,” Cesc says, grinning. “You look terrible.”

“Fuck you,” Iker says before wheezing, whooping. “I stay up to let you in and all you can—”

Cesc pushes him inside, closes the door. He drops his bags on a pile of shoes, wraps an arm around Iker. He feels small. Smaller, at least. Iker’s arms are trapped in the blanket, and Cesc can feel him struggle for a minute, trying to hug back, but eventually giving up.

“You should go to bed.”

Iker relaxes against Cesc. “You should come with me.”

They lay in bed, Cesc still clothed, Iker in sweatpants and an undershirt. Iker curls into Cesc’s side, laughs when Cesc tells him about the flight and the woman across the aisle who kept praying that they’d land. He groans when he tells him what Pique said the other night. Coughs a lot. Says, “Sara should be gone until next Tuesday.”

Cesc rolls his eyes.

 

The next day, Cesc wakes at seven. Iker is face down against a pool of blankets and pillows. When Cesc tries to shake him, Iker flails his arm back, smacking Cesc in the chest. He doesn’t mind, really, because Iker can be a dick in the mornings. So he goes to the kitchen, scavenges for food.

Apparently, Iker doesn’t believe in grocery shopping. Which is alarming because he’s a good cook; Cesc knows this. But his refrigerator is stocked with butter, skim milk, and provolone cheese. There’s a Tupperware container of pasta in the back. His cupboards aren’t much better. Stale cereal, instant coffee, cans of vegetables and soup.

Cesc settles on tomato soup and coffee for breakfast. Even for instant coffee, it’s bad. Cheap. It tastes like sludge and leaves a dark line of residue on the mug.

 

Iker doesn’t wake until noon. He stumbles into the living room, glares at Cesc, who’s sprawled across the couch, talking on the phone. “Yeah, I’ll probably be over that way in a week or so.”

“Did Sergio stop by?”

Cesc holds a finger up. “Yeah, I’ll look at flights. Or rent a car, I don’t know. But I’ll let you know.”

“Because he said he was—”

Cesc covers the mouthpiece, raises his eyebrows. “I’m on the phone.” He goes back to his conversation, grinning when Iker crosses his arms, frowns. “Alright, well I’ll call you later. Iker’s being a bitch.”

“I’m not being a bitch.”

Cesc lets his phone drop to the floor and folds his arms behind his head. “Kinda being a bitch.”

“I’m sick.”

“Then go to bed.”

Iker narrows his eyes and Cesc knows he’s about two seconds from stomping his foot. “If Sergio comes over, wake me up.” He gives Cesc a look that says, ‘Well, aren’t you coming with me?’ and grimaces when Cesc reaches for the remote, turns on the History Channel.

 

By the time Sergio comes over, Iker is awake. He’s cross-legged on the couch in sweatpants, an undershirt, and a navy cardigan. “Feeling better?” Sergio asks, bringing the back of his palm to Iker’s forehead. “You feel hot. But not as hot as yesterday.”

Iker smirks. “I’m always hot.” His voice is scratchy from coughing.

Somewhere in the kitchen, Cesc grunts. “Yeah, right.”

Sergio laughs. “I brought Lost and The Office.” He puts a stack of DVDs on the television stand. “Do you want me to put anything in right now?”

Iker wrinkles his nose. “I don’t like Lost.”

Cesc walks out with a glass of milk and a slice of cheese. “That’s just because he doesn’t understand it. Thanks for bringing that all over, though.”

Sergio grins and takes a seat next to Iker. “You guys need anything?”

Iker shakes his head as Cesc groans, “Food.”

“I don’t need food,” Iker argues. “I have cereal.”

Cesc looks at him in a way that reads, ‘You’re stupid,’ as Sergio looks at Cesc in a, ‘is this bitch for real? Cereal?’ fashion. “Make a list of what you want, Iker.”

Iker crosses his arms, leans his head against the back of the couch. “Don’t want anything.”

Cesc and Sergio share a look. It says, ‘Oh captain, my captain,’ with a lot of sarcastic undertones.

 

The store isn’t far away and it’s nice. One of those quaint mom and pop shops with candy bins in the back. The employees wear red and white striped aprons, little black bow ties. “Do you need a cart?” Sergio asks.

“Probably two,” Cesc laughs. “I had tomato soup and instant coffee for breakfast this morning.”

Sergio tests a few carts before grabbing on that doesn’t veer to the left or squeak. “Yeah, he doesn’t eat much when,” he shrugs. “You know.”

Cesc nods. They walk down the aisle, Sergio leaning on the cart, shimmying his hips as he walks. Cesc still doesn’t know much about Sergio, but he knows that he can make grocery shopping stylish. He’s in dark jeans and a white v-neck, sunglasses hanging from the neck. The sleeves are tight around his biceps. Hair is straightened.

Cesc’s in faded jeans and a hoodie that’s two sizes too big. He feels like a kid, following mom at the store.

As they walk up and down the aisles, Cesc tosses things into the cart. It’s haphazard; he doesn’t cook much on his own. But he grabs the basics: pasta, tomato sauce, cheese, rice, Lucky Charms.

They pass a couple in the baking aisle (Cesc wants muffin mix) and Cesc hears a hushed, “Isn’t that…” but by the time they finish, Cesc and Sergio are turning into the next aisle. Iker hates being recognized when he’s with Cesc. “What will people think?” he asked. He was visiting Cesc and they’d returned from a play. A group of girls had asked for a picture; Iker declined, but gave an autograph. Cesc put his arms around the girls shoulders, grinned. “They’ll think my friend is visiting me.” They stared at one another, a fight brewing between them until Iker said, “Okay.”

They’re in the juice aisle. Cesc grabs some juice boxes, mixed berry, and smirks. “We should get saltines, too.”

“I don’t know how you put up with him,” Sergio says. Cesc doesn’t answer.

 

They’re in the car when Sergio says, “Iker talks about you a lot.” The words make Cesc uncomfortable, toy with a hole in his jeans. “Like, not to everyone,” Sergio rushes, “But to me.” He comes to a stop at a red light, looks over. “I don’t even think he realizes how much he loves you.”

It’s something Cesc and Iker have never talked about. “I don’t know about that. He’s got—”

And Sergio reaches up, presses the back of his hand to Cesc’s cheek. “I’m serious. I mean, it’s none of my business, but I can just tell. He’s not just playing house with you like he is with—” His voice cuts off, and Cesc is thankful. “If he didn’t have any obligations, or felt like he had obligations, I guess, it’d be you. Just you.”

Cesc had never thought of himself as a break from obligations. “The light’s green.”

Sergio presses on the gas pedal, perhaps a little too hard.

 

Cesc puts the groceries away, being careful not to slam the cupboards or drop any cans. Iker’s sleeping with the door open. Says it gets too hot if he closes it. When Cesc’s done, he walks to the bedroom, strips off his jeans and hoodie, and climbs in next to Iker. He’s hot, too hot, but he rolls into Cesc’s arms. “Hi,” Iker whispers, his voice raspy and hoarse.

“How you feeling?”

Iker doesn’t answer; he coughs. It sounds like it comes from his belly, picking up speed and weight as it comes up his throat.

“If you feel better later in the week, we should go shopping. For presents.”

Iker’s shoulder cinch forward, relax. “I already did most of mine. Just need stuff for Sara.”

Cesc nods. His present for Iker is in the bottom of his ratty duffel bag. One of those Kindles. Iker complains on planes that he can’t read at night; he never wants to turn on the overhead lights. “People could be sleeping. Or trying to sleep,” he always says.

Cesc’s already downloaded Iker’s favorite books. He’s downloaded some of his own, as well.

“There’s other things I want to do when I feel better, though.”

Cesc doesn’t know how Iker can sound seductive with that nasal tone, but he does. “Oh?”

Iker nods against him, and Cesc’s cock twitches.

It’s hard to remember the first time they fucked. There was a lot of lead up, celebratory hugs that lasted a bit too long, kisses that moved across cheeks and onto lips, flirtations that started as jokes and ended as “You want my cock?” whispered in Cesc’s ear. Cesc remembers a lot of the lead up. Sneaking into Iker’s room at night, sucking his cock until his mouth ached, jerking off on Iker’s bed. It took a while to get Iker in bed, to get him inside, but when it actually happened? Cesc doesn’t remember.

They were probably drunk. Or at least he was.

But he remembers the last time Iker fucked him. Cesc’s flight was delayed; they were in a bathroom stall. It was late and the bathroom was empty, quiet save for heavy breaths. Cesc’s hands were pressed against the wall, pants at his knees, head hanging low. Iker’s fingers were gripping his hips, pinching the skin, his cock buried deep in Cesc. His thrusts were quick, shallow, not deep enough. And Cesc kept pushing back, asking, “Please, I just, I need,” and Iker reached forward, put his hand over Cesc’s mouth.

“Shh,” he hushed, thrust a bit harder, a bit deeper, rougher.

After Iker came, he zipped up his pants and reached around Cesc’s body to grab his cock. “You want me to—you already came?” He turned Cesc around, smirked. And Cesc lied and nodded, pulled his pants back up. He was able to force a smile and kiss Iker’s cheek, the whole time wondering if Iker ever touches Sara during sex.

Later, he told Gerard and said, “Maybe he just doesn’t…know.”

And Gerard scoffed. “Or maybe he’s a dick.”

Cesc laughed, said, “Yeah, or that.”

 

Cesc’s making soup for Iker. Semi-homemade. He’s using canned mixed vegetables and broth from a can, but it smells good. Iker says he’s not hungry, but Cesc wants to make the soup anyways, says, “It’s not all about you, Iker.”

Iker’s on the couch, watching Pawn Stars. It’s in English and sometimes, a customer will come in with something Iker doesn’t recognize, can’t understand, and he’ll ask Cesc what it is. And Cesc will come out, wooden spoon in hand, and say, “Eh, it’s like a memorabilia plaque. A memento or something.” And Iker will nod. Sometimes, Cesc doesn’t know what it is, so he makes it up. “They’re saying it used to be used in battle. Like to bludgeon people.” And Iker believes him, shrugs.

When the soup is done, Cesc brings it out to Iker, the bowl resting on a plate, crackers tucked in on the sides. “It’s still a little hot,” he says, sits beside him.

“I said I didn’t want any.”

“Well, you haven’t eaten today. And it’s almost five, so,” and Cesc fills the spoon with soup, brings it to his lips, blows. When steam stops billowing off, he brings it to Iker’s lips, raises an eyebrow until Iker opens his mouth and swallows. “Good?” Iker grunts, but he takes the bowl and starts to eat small bites. A bit of broth dribbles down the middle of his lip and he wipes it with the back of his palm. “You’re welcome.” Cesc grabs the remote and turns the volume up.

“You should go out,” Iker says. It’s not really a suggestion. “You shouldn’t be stuck here all day. Go to Xabi’s and like. Play with the kids. Talk about London, I don’t know.”

On the television, a woman’s trying to get rid of a parasol. She thinks it’s worth a few hundred dollars and the guy—Cesc thinks it’s the owner’s son, maybe—says it’s worth like ten bucks. He doesn’t know Xabi that well. They shared a hotel room once, but only because they had been on the same flight. “I don’t think Xabi likes me much.”

“Sure he does. He talks about you sometimes. Says you’re a bitch to play against.”

“But he doesn’t like me. I can tell when I’m talking. Sometimes he just stares at me like, ‘Wow, are you twelve?’ and it makes me feel dumb.”

Iker laughs, but it turns into a cough. After a few moments, he’s able to speak again. “Well, sometimes you act a bit…you know. When you’re with Pique, especially. And Puyi. You three are just—”

“Fun,” Cesc finishes for him. “Some of us like to have a good time.”

“Are you saying I don’t know how to have a good time?” Iker’s staring into his soup now. “I hate carrots, Cesc.”

“Eat around them.”

Iker stares at the television. There’s an old man carrying a helmet.

“What’s Sergio’s number?”

 

Sergio’s house is not what Cesc expected. He’d pictured flamboyant gold decorations, oversized portraits, expensive rugs. Maybe a coat of armor.

It’s relatively unfurnished. A flat screen TV hangs in the living room across from a plain leather couch. A cheesy, made for TV Christmas movie is muted on the television. There’s a coffee table, a half-filled bookshelf, and a small Christmas tree. It's undecorated. “I haven’t really gone shopping for, you know,” Sergio looks around, “furniture. Like, I go to the store and look around and just don’t know what I want. I don’t even have a bed frame yet.”

Cesc never pictured Sergio to be the type of guy who sleeps on a mattress on the floor.

There’s other things out of place, too. Sergio, for example. He answered the door in gym shorts and a white v-neck. Slippers. Cesc can’t wait to text Gerard and let him know that Sergio Ramos wears slippers with holes in the heels.

“I was making pizza, if you want any. Do want a drink? Beer? I have water. And juice.”

“Pizza? And beer? I clearly picked the wrong teammate to mess around with.”

There’s an awkward silence before Sergio blinks heavily, turns on his heel and walks to the kitchen. “You have no idea.”

Cesc doesn’t know how to take that. Instead of thinking about it, he follows Sergio to the kitchen.

 

They’re watching Rudolph and Cesc isn’t drunk, but he could be. Soon. Sergio is still eating pizza and there are crumbs on his shirt. A bit of Italian seasoning is stuck in his teeth; when he talks, Cesc stares at it. “Iker hates Christmas movies,” he says.

“That’s because Iker is actually Scrooge. We all wore Christmas sweaters to the last Christmas party and Iker actually wore a black turtleneck. And black slacks. And black shoes.”

Cesc laughs. “But he probably looked hot. In all black.” He wants to take it back the second he says it, but it’s in the air, so he goes on. “I like when he wears turtlenecks. Even though they’re ugly as fuck, they just make me really horny.”

Sergio is visibly uncomfortable. He tucks his feet under his body and starts, unblinking, at the television. “Oh.”

“It’s like, he looks like a fucking professor.” Cesc’s cheeks are bright red, splotchy. “Philosophy or—”

“How long are you in town?” Sergio asks, a bit louder than needed.

“I don’t know. I was going to stay with Gerard for a while.”

“Where are you spending Christmas?”

And Cesc stares forward. “I don’t know.” He knows what Sergio’s asking, but he doesn’t really know the answer. He’s grateful he didn’t just come out and ask. “Carla’s with her family. I told my family that I,” he pauses, bites at his lip, “that I was going with her. But.”

Sergio understands. “Here you are.”

“It’s stupid, I know. Because Sara’s coming in next week and. I guess I’ll just stay with Geri. He said I’m welcome to.” And then, just to stop talking, he asks, “What are you doing?”

“My family’s having a thing. With everyone. And I mean everyone. So, I’m staying away until Christmas Eve. I told them I’m staying with Isabell for a while.”

“Isabell?”

Sergio grins around a mouthful of pizza. “I never thought I’d have to make up a girlfriend to avoid family. I just don’t want to deal with people right now.”

“Oh.” Cesc sits up straight.

“No, I mean. Most people.”

“Oh.” Cesc slouches back into the couch, still looking over at Sergio. This time, he blinks and breaks the silence. “You have something in your teeth.”

 

Cesc takes a taxi back to Iker’s. The door is unlocked, but the lights are off. He fumbles through the living room, down the hall, into the bedroom. Iker’s awake, reading. “Hi,” he says when Cesc walks in, watching as Cesc strips off his shirt, shoves his pants off. “Did you have fun?”

“We watched Christmas movies.” Iker wrinkles his nose. “And ate pizza. Sergio can make pizza, did you know that? It’s good.” He plops down on the bed, on top of the covers. “His slippers have holes in them. It’s cute.”

“Cute?” Iker sets his book down on the nightstand. “Sergio’s cute, now?” His voice is less raspy. There’s a playful tone to it.

“Sergio’s always been cute. For a show horse.”

Iker sits up like someone was about to attack him. “What?”

Cesc rolls onto his back, draws circles in the air with his arms. “You know, a show horse. That’s what Gerard and I call him. Because he always looks like…you know. He’s being put on display.”

“Gerard looks like a donkey,” Iker huffs.

“Fuck you, Gerard’s hot.” Cesc brings himself to a sitting position, rolls and fidgets and tugs until he’s under the blankets. “You sound better.”

Iker turns his lamp off. “I feel better. A little. My head hurts a little but my throat doesn’t hurt as much.”

“We should go shopping tomorrow.” Cesc scoots closer, presses his hand against Iker’s bare belly. “And tonight, we should—”

And Iker’s rolling them over, sidling between Cesc’s thighs. “Tonight I should fuck you,” Iker grins down, sniffles a little. “And then tomorrow morning, I should fuck you again.”

“You really are feeling better, yeah?” Cesc brings his knees up squeezes Iker’s waist with his thighs. His arms wrap around Iker’s shoulders, pull him down for a kiss. It’s softer, slower than usual. Their first kiss—first real kiss—was rough. Iker biting on Cesc’s lower lip, gripping the side of his neck with a gloved hand. Most of their kisses were like that. But this.

This.

Iker licks at Cesc’s lips, kisses his chin, his neck, “I’ve missed you.” He reaches between them and touches Cesc through his boxers, draws a line down his cock. “I’ve missed touching you.”

And Cesc bites his tongue, thinks, “Really?” But he keeps quiet as Iker moves under the covers, shoves his boxers down, and takes Cesc in his mouth.

Cesc can literally count the number of blowjobs Iker has given on his left hand. He could lose a finger or two and still be able to count them. With that in mind, he doesn’t touch Iker’s hair, his shoulder, nothing. He keeps his hands at his sides and resists the urge to lift the blanket and watch Iker. He’s never actually seen Iker’s mouth around his cock. It’s always under blankets, in the dark, like a game of hide and seek. As if Iker thinks, “If no one can see me, it hasn’t happened.”

It’s good. Really good. Not the best, nothing out of the ordinary, just a routine up and down. Slow. He doesn’t take much in his mouth, but Cesc doesn’t mind. He’s thankful for this little bit.

Iker sits up, pushes the blankets off. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his palm. “Do you have any lube?” Iker doesn’t keep lube in his house. “Sara would be suspicious,” he said when Cesc questioned him.

“In my bag. Outside zipper.”

Iker loses his boxers on the way to Cesc’s bag. “You got condoms in here, too?”

The only people Cesc fucks are Carla and Iker, but Iker still insists. And it doesn’t bother him—wouldn’t bother him—if Iker would just touch him. Finger him, lick him, anything. “Yeah, they’re in there.”

Iker stands up and tosses the lube at Cesc. He sits on the end of the bed, watches as Cesc parts his leg, starts to finger himself. “You look good like that,” he says. “Really good. Opening yourself up for my cock.”

Cesc adds another fingers and closes his eyes. He imagines Iker kissing between his thighs, trailing lower, pulling Cesc’s hand away. He can almost feel him pushing on the back of his knees, rolling Cesc back, opening him up. Toying his opening with his tongue, slow, languid licks. A nip on his cheek. And then, God—

“You ready yet?” Iker asks, getting on his knees and shuffling back between Cesc’s thighs.

Cesc moves his hand to his cock, using the leftover lube to jerk himself off. Iker enters him a bit too quickly, as if he forgot that he’s the only one who gets to do this. That there hasn’t been anyone since the last time, at the airport. Cesc doesn’t say anything, but he arches his back and moans the way Iker likes it. “Your cock feels so good in me,” he says. He feels stupid, always feels dumb, saying those things. “Been wanting you to fuck me all night.” What he sounds like in his head is a child swearing, whispering four letter words.

And then Iker’s fucking him, really fucking him, panting in Cesc’s ear. “Yeah? Been thinking about me stretching you out? Fucking you like a little slut?” He bites Cesc’s ear, a little too hard. Cesc groans and bucks his hips up. “Like that?” Cesc nods, his eyes clenched shut. He jerks his cock roughly, just wanting to come before Iker finishes. Doesn’t want that awkward, “Let me jerk off while you catch your breath beside me,” moment. Not like usual. Iker’s hand comes up, grips Cesc’s jaw. “I couldn’t hear you.”

He thrusts, hard, burying himself deep inside of Cesc, who cries out. “I love your cock in me,” he says through gritted teeth. His hole feels raw.

He shudders when he comes, tightens himself around Iker, hoping he’s close. Iker whispers, “You’re so tight. So much tighter than—” and he’s cut off by his orgasm. Cesc’s thankful for that.

 

They go out to lunch after shopping. Cesc’s loaded down with bags, but Iker only has one. A small bag from the jewelry store. Earrings, a necklace. Cesc half expected him to buy a ring, but then he remembered who he was shopping with.

“I hate Christmas,” Iker says. He’s eating spaghetti. “Having to get shit for people you don’t even like or know. Like, I had to buy Sara’s sister something. I met her once. She didn’t even talk to me. And, later she told Sara I look old.”

“Well,” Cesc jokes, grinning.

“Fuck you,” but Iker laughs, too. He absently reaches up, ruffles his own hair. “I’m distinguished.” His phone rings and he answers it without seeing who it is. He grabs his garlic bread and wanders away from the table. Cesc watches him for a moment, then picks up his phone. Sergio texted him earlier.

white christmas is on tonight. im making tacos. u in?

He texts back. im w iker :\

And it’s a heartbeat before Sergio’s responding. no problem! have fun ;)

When Iker comes back, his lips are tight. “Sara’s coming home. Tomorrow.”

“I thought you said—”

“They finished early. I have to pick her up at noon.”

“Oh.”

 

Cesc packs his bags that night. He puts them in the living room and calls Gerard. “Are you sure?” Iker watches from the kitchen, biting his nail. “Well, I could just come on Wednesday. That should be fine. Listen, I’ll call you when I know what’s going on. Thanks, Geri.”

When he turns around, Iker’s staring at him. “Where are you going to go?”

“Well, if I can’t find anywhere else, Gerard said I can just stay at his house. He’s gone until Wednesday, but Puyi has a key.”

“Okay.”

He wants to say, “You have a fucking guest room,” but he doesn’t.

“I need to wash my sheets,” Iker says. What he doesn’t say is, “So I can’t smell you on them.” He retreats down the hall. Cesc takes out his phone, texts, has the movie started yet?

He leaves Iker’s present on the counter and calls a taxi.

 

“I definitely picked the wrong teammate,” Cesc says when Sergio hands him a plate of tacos. “This looks amazing.”

Sergio’s wearing a green hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants that are a size too big. His socks don’t match. “Well, we all don’t have—” Sergio stutters to a pause. “The movie should be starting soon. Do you want a beer?”

“Water’s fine.” Cesc remembers the last time. He doesn’t want to ramble about Iker in turtlenecks. He doesn’t want to ramble about Iker at all, actually.

They watch the movie in silence. When Cesc finishes his food, he sets the plate on the wood floor, stretches out on the couch. His feet nudge Sergio’s thighs. “Did you get all your Christmas shopping done?” Sergio scrapes some cheese off his plate, then leans over, sets his own plate down. As if it’s natural, Sergio, grabs Cesc’s feet, places them in his lap, then looks over at Cesc expectantly.

Cesc stares at him like he’s a hallucination. “Yes. I mean. I don’t have anything for my mom. But, I can just get her a necklace. I don’t know.”

“Your feet are cold.” And Sergio wraps his hands around Cesc’s feet, broad hands that seem to be bigger than Cesc’s feet. “You have shitty circulation.” And then he’s looking forward again, nonchalantly, rubbing Cesc’s feet. It’s not really a foot rub. It starts as Sergio simply rubbing his feet, warming them like he would his own hands.

Cesc stares. He stares at Sergio’s messy hair, pushed back from his face with a thick green headband. He stares at the flex of his arms. His lips.

Finally, he looks back at the television, watches the movie. He’s doing okay, just fine, until Sergio tugs on his socks, pulling them off and laying them on the arm of the couch. “This okay?” he asks, even though he doesn’t seem to care what the answer is. He kneads at Cesc’s arch, digging his thumbs into the tight flesh. He works up to his big toes, down to his heels.

Cesc doesn’t really know what to do, what to say. He blurts, “I’ve never had a foot rub.”

Sergio smiles, but he doesn’t look at him. “Okay.” He keeps smiling and Cesc knows that smile. It’s the same smile Iker gave him, back before they first fucked. Back before things got a bit too rough and Iker was more.

Well.

He used to call Cesc to tell him he missed his smile.

“It feels nice,” Cesc says.

“I’m good with my hands,” Sergio says and he’s still smiling. Cesc doesn’t know if he’s joking or if he’s—

“I bet you are,” Cesc says, and wiggles his toes.

 

Sergio takes the couch. Cesc protests, but he insists. “I wake up early. To go running. Do you want me to make you coffee before I leave?” Cesc says no, but thanks him.

His bedroom is, like the rest of his house, unexpected. The mattress is on the floor and there’s a single lamp next to it. The closet door is open and Cesc has to look. It’s a walk-in closet, larger than Cesc’s bathroom. But it’s messy. Like, really, really messy. Piles of clothes everywhere, falling out of drawers, hanging over bars. Hangers are strewn across the floor.

Even Gerard’s closet is cleaner.

He smiles and crawls into bed. The sheets smell like shampoo and body wash. Expensive cologne.

 

In the morning, the house is quiet. Cesc smells coffee. He walks to the kitchen, still in his boxers. His feet are bare; his socks are still on the couch. A note is on the counter. “I’ll make eggs when I get back. Coffee cups are above the microwave.” He pours a cup of coffee and watches cartoons until Sergio gets back.

 

Sergio showers and changes into the same sweatpants and sweatshirt he wore the night before. He makes omelets and fills them with peppers, cheese, and tomatoes. “You keep cooking like this and I’ll never leave.” They sit at the dining room table. It’s covered in junk mail, Christmas cards, and old newspapers.

“And?”

Cesc looks at him across the table and for a moment—just a moment—they lock eyes and Cesc feel bad, terrible, sick to his stomach. His hand shakes a bit when he stabs at the omelet.

“I like having you around,” Sergio says as he chops up his omelet. “Which is weird because I never thought we’d get along very well. But I guess I’ve only been around you when you’re around Gerard. And, well.”

Cesc raises an eyebrow, almost daring Sergio to say something.

“Gerard and I are very different.” He laughs—it’s more of a nervous chuckle—and adds, “And I’m pretty sure he hates me. At least after, you know.”

Cesc watched the replays, saw how fast Gerard reacted, how quick he was to get in his face. If they were anywhere else, Gerard would have hit him. But he didn’t. He could have, would have, but he didn’t. “Well, you touched Puyi. They’re like brothers.”

“I thought you two were closer.”

Cesc chews, swallows, and sets his fork down. He grabs for his coffee and cradles it between his hands. “If you’d pushed me like that? Gerard would probably be suspended for the season.”

“Yeah?”

Cesc nods slowly. “Yeah.”

 

Sergio makes popcorn. It’s a Wonderful Life and Miracle on 34th Street are playing back to back. “Do you like salt?” Sergio asks. Cesc’s curled on the couch, buried underneath a quilt. It looks homemade.

“And pepper.”

“Beer?” Sergio answers for him, handing him a bottle. Cesc doesn’t really want it, but it’s open so he drinks. Sergio settles in under the blanket, stretches his leg out. He balances the popcorn bowl by their knees in the middle of the couch. “You can’t make fun of me,” he says, taking a handful of popcorn. Cesc furrows his brow, takes a swig. “I get teary every time. At the end, when he’s running through the town.”

Cesc’s never seen the movie in Spanish. He points out parts that don’t translate well, and Sergio gives an appreciative, “Hmph,” every time, like he actually thinks that’s interesting. Every now and then he asks, “How would you say that? In English?” And Cesc stops, thinks, tells him. And Sergio looks at him the same way girls look at him in London when he’s talking on the phone to his family or Gerard.

Sergio does get teary at the end, and Cesc doesn’t say anything. He reaches under the blanket and squeezes Sergio’s calf, lets his hand linger there long after the credits have finished. The next movie is starting and Cesc says, “I’m glad it’s not the new one,” and working his hand up Sergio’s pant leg. His legs are smooth, waxed, and Cesc’s not used to that. Iker’s legs are hairy. “I like the old guy in this one. And the little girl. She’s spunky.” He squeezes Sergio’s knee, bites his lip when he tenses.

“Do you want another beer?”

Cesc doesn’t, but he nods and watches as Sergio untangles himself from the blanket. When he comes back, he sits cross legged on top of the quilt. He hands Cesc his beer and stares forward at the television. “I can make more popcorn if you want. And I have some cookies. In the pantry.”

“Maybe later.”

They’re about halfway through the movie before Sergio asks, “How’s Iker?”

“He hasn’t called. Or anything.”

“Oh.”

“I always have to call him first,” Cesc admits. “It’s really fucking annoying, actually.”

“I don’t get him,” Sergio says, finishing his beer. Cesc’s is still half full, lukewarm. “Like, he talks about you. He loves you. But it’s like he’s afraid to let you know it.” The movie goes to commercial.

Cesc laughs, “That’s because he’s in love with the idea of it all. With me, he doesn’t have to worry about getting married or having kids or doing what anyone else wants him to do. It’s just what he wants, all the time.”

Sergio stands up, probably to get another beer and make popcorn, asks, “Every time?”

Cesc tilts his bottle back, finishing it in a couple gulps. “Yep.” He pushes the quilt back and stands up. His knees crack, thighs ache. “Can I get another beer?”

They make their way to the kitchen, socks padding softly on the wood. Sergio starts to melt butter, measure out popcorn kernels. He’s about to plug in the air popper when he says, “You deserve more.”

But it’s mainly lost in the whir of the machine. Cesc opens his beer, tosses the cap in the garbage. He watches Sergio stir the butter, idly scratch the back of his thigh. And he feels bad, sick, when he starts to wonder how Sergio’s thigh would feel under his tongue.

Cesc blinks, heavy. “I need to pee.”

Sergio’s whistling “Sleigh Ride.”

Sergio doesn’t say anything when Cesc comes back. He’s holding the bowl in his lap, drinking water, completely locked into the television. Cesc sits next to him, keeps a bit of space. “What did I miss?”

Sergio shrugs, offers the bowl. Cesc takes a couple pieces.

Cesc thinks about scooting a bit closer, nuzzling in against Sergio’s shoulder. Ducking under his arm. Pressing his fingers against this thigh. He could, and somehow he knows Sergio would let him. But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t because with Iker, there was Sara. And with Sergio.

Well, there’s “Isabell.” But that won’t keep Sergio quiet. That won’t make them even.

He can tell Sergio’s biting his tongue. Literally biting his tongue; Cesc’s never known someone to do that. Gerard just blurts things out, Iker passive aggressively complains, Carla writes notes.

Cesc always pretends nothing bothers him. “We should go out tomorrow.”

“Hmm?”

“Like, out. For drinks or something. Dinner, too. I owe you.”

Sergio relaxes against the couch. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Yeah I do. You saved me an extra plane ticket and having to pay for a hotel room. And you’ve been feeding me and—”

Sergio repeats, “You don’t owe me anything, Cesc. It’s not a big deal.”

“Well, maybe I just want to go out.”

Sergio takes the bowl back. “Then we’ll go out. But don’t act like you owe me shit. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

And Cesc has a feeling this isn’t about dinner and drinks anymore.

 

Sergio recommends some restaurant on the other side of the city. Cesc can tell it’s expensive, just by the way Sergio says the name. “You’re not paying for me,” Sergio says, tying his shoes. He looks up at Cesc, who’s in dark jeans and a blue sweater. “Do you have anything else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, slacks? A button up?”

Sergio’s in black dress pants, a salmon button up, and a black cardigan. His shoes, Cesc think, are shiny as fuck.

“I have a black sweater?” Sergio stares at him, eye blank, mouth forced shut. He stands and gives a “follow me” motion. Cesc wants to say, “Your clothes won’t fit me,” but he follows.

They’re in Sergio’s closet and he’s digging through a pile of clothes. “It’s Marcelo’s, and I can’t promise that it’s clean, but.” He pulls out a gray button up, flicks out the wrinkles. “The jeans are fine. And wear those boots you were wearing when I picked you up. The black ones.” He stares expectantly at Cesc, raises his eyebrows. “Hurry up.” He tucks the shirt under his arm and steps forward, tugging at Cesc’s sweater. “What is this? Iker’s? Christ. We need to go shopping tomorrow.”

Cesc pulls his shirt over his head, lets it drop to the floor. Sergio holds the shirt out, looks down at Cesc and it isn’t often that Cesc feels like he’s being objectified, at least not like this. And then Sergio blinks and turns around. “I have a belt somewhere. That’ll match your boots.”

 

Dinner is nice. Cesc can tell Sergio comes here quite a bit; they get a table in the corner, away from the main hall. “You’ve really never been here?” Sergio takes a sip of his wine. It’s dark and red and Cesc can’t pronounce the name. He’s drinking water. “I figured Iker would bring you.”

It’s like he’s baiting him. And Cesc knows it, but he says, “Iker doesn’t really take me out.”

“You should get this.” Sergio reaches across the table and points. He reads Cesc’s face and says, “I’ll order it for you.”

Cesc does most of the talking. He tells Sergio about the decorations in London, and how they’ve been playing Christmas music in the locker room for the last month. What he got his cousins for Christmas. Where he and Gerard are planning to go when he visits. After they’re done eating, Cesc stares at his empty plate and says, “I talk too much, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t.”

“Iker thinks I talk too much. Sometimes. I mean, he doesn’t say anything, but.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Well, he sure acts like it.”

Sergio pushes some onions around on his plate. “Then why do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Fuck him.” Sergio sets his plate down, leans back in his chair. “Is it even good? I can’t imagine Iker being good. He’s a bit too selfish, yeah?” He smirks like this is a game they’re playing. “Is he?”

“I’m not really sure we should be talking about this.”

“Is that a yes? Does he ever let you fuck him?”

“Sergio.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“It has nothing to do with him letting me do anything. He just doesn’t—”

They fall silent when their server comes to take their plates and drop off their check. Sergio snatches the check. “You don’t need to get defensive. I’m just wondering why you go through all of this for someone like that.”

“I can pay,” Cesc says.

Sergio shakes his head and pulls out his wallet. “No. We’ll just consider this the dinner Iker should’ve taken you out for.”

The drive back to Sergio’s is silent. Cesc stares out the window and Sergio hums “Silent Night.” That night, Cesc claims the couch. Sergio brings him a blanket and a pillow, says, “Sleep well, Cesc.” He stands above him for a moment as if waiting for Cesc to say something.

 

Cesc wakes when Sergio slams the door. He gets up and looks outside, watches Sergio stretching on the porch. He’s wearing a snood and winter hat. He can hear the coffee machine going.

There’s a note on the counter that says, “I’m sorry.” Cesc crumbles it up and heads for the shower. He calls a taxi and leaves for town before Sergio gets back. He walks around town, does a bit of light shopping. Finds a necklace for his mom.

He’s at a café, drinking black coffee and eating an apple fritter when he texts Iker. wish i could see you.

He’s almost done with this coffee when his phone vibrates across the table. He picks it up.

missed u at lunch. i made tomato basil pasta.

It’s from Sergio.

 

When Cesc gets back, Sergio’s wrapping presents. He’s surrounded by packages wrapped in silver paper, decorated with ribbons and bows. He’s in ripped jeans and a bleach stained t-shirt. “Can you hand me those ribbons?” Sergio points at the couch. There’s a bag of ribbons, all different colors.

“These looks fancy,” Cesc says. “Shiny.”

Sergio laughs and nods. “Yeah. I suppose. Do you need to wrap anything?”

“Yeah.”

And Sergio doesn’t say anything until Cesc sits down on the couch. Then, he looks up, scissors in hand, and says, “Well? Bring them to me.”

 

“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen this much glitter in one place.” Cesc stares into Sergio’s box of Christmas ornaments.

“Yeah. There’s more in the basement if we need them. I was thinking we use the white lights and only use the glitter bulbs. Which star should I use?” He reaches into the box and pulls out two stars. One is plain, silver. The other lights up.

“The silver one.”

“Good choice.”

They decorate and Sergio is meticulous. He makes sure the lights are spread out evenly, changes bulbs that are dead. They space the ornaments out, making sure two similar colors aren’t near one another. When they’re done and the presents are stacked underneath, Sergio plugs the tree in and Cesc feels like he’s at home, with his parents.

It feels like Christmas, finally.

“The Grinch is on.”

“Jim Carrey?”

Sergio nods. “I can make caramel corn.”

 

They’re on the couch, Sergio cross legged and Cesc sprawled with his feet in Sergio’s lap. He’s drunk. Sergio’s on his way. “You’re right, you know. Iker’s a dick.”

“He’s not a dick he’s just. Dumb. And selfish.”

“He’s only sucked my dick three times. And only the tip.” Cesc grabs a handful of caramel corn. “And he makes me stretch myself out. What the fuck, you know?”

“Cesc,” Sergio laughs and reaches over for Cesc’s beer. “I think you’re done.”

But Cesc pulls his hand back and shakes his head. “No. I’m not, actually. He can only fuck. He never can just have sex with me, it has to be fucking. Like, the rougher it is and the more we say dirty shit that I don’t like saying, the less it seems like he’s doing something wrong. Like he makes love to Sara but fucks me, so it’s okay.” He stumbles over his words, has to back track at points. Sergio sits up, moves the popcorn bowl to the floor. “I was eating that,” Cesc starts, but then Sergio’s kneeling above him straddling his knees.

“Cesc.” He takes Cesc’s beer and sets it on the coffee table. “That’s not true.”

“It is.” Cesc folds his arms across his chest. “He always calls me a slut.” He looks up at Sergio, eyes wide. “I’m not a slut.”

Sergio shakes his head. “I know.”

“He makes me do what Sara won’t.”

And Sergio lowers his head, presses their foreheads together. Cesc tilts his head back, searches for Sergio’s lips. When he finds them, he’s rough, pressing his tongue past Sergio’s lips. But Sergio pulls back, runs his thumb over Cesc’s eyebrow. “Slow down.” He leans back in, kisses Cesc’s upper lip, his lower lip, up his jaw. “Things don’t always have to be fast, you know.”

Cesc nods, tries to turn his head to Sergio’s lips. “Okay.”

Finally, Sergio kisses him, trails his tongue over his lips, laughs when Cesc nips at the tip. And then it’s languid, easy, but still hungry. “You taste good,” Sergio whispers. “So good.”

“Sergio,” Cesc laughs out his name when Sergio sucks on his neck, hard enough to leave a mark but soft enough that it will be gone tomorrow. “We shouldn’t.”

“You want me to stop?”

Cesc’s cock is half hard, pressing against his jeans. Drunk, uncaring, he reaches down to press his palm against himself. “I don’t know.”

“Just pretend I’m Iker,” Sergio teases.

He takes Cesc's earlobe between his lips and sucks until Cesc’s pretty sure his leg is shaking and he’s making high pitched whines that he’ll deny later. Iker’s never done that. Hell, no one’s ever done that. “That’s going to be hard if you keep doing that,” he breathes.

“You want me to stop?” Sergio asks against the soft skin below Cesc’s ear. “I can stop, if that’s what you want. Or I can suck your cock,” he licks at Cesc’s neck. “I can eat out your pretty ass, and I can finger you until you come. Do you want to come in my mouth, Cesc?”

Cesc nods, movements quick, jerky.

“What?”

“I want to come in your mouth. I want you inside me.” The words spill out like water from a faucet. “I want you.”

Sergio pulls back stares at Cesc. “Say that again.”

Cesc leans forward, keen. “I want you.” He reaches for Sergio, presses his hand against Sergio’s crotch. He hard in his sweatpants, cock jutting out. “I want you in me, Sergio.”

Sergio moves back, working at Cesc’s jeans. “We can do that later, if you still want.” He pulls the jeans down tosses them on the floor. “Do you want to go to my room? Or—”

“No, please.” Cesc’s pushing at his boxers, unashamed. As Sergio works them off his legs, Cesc fists his own cock. “I want you right now.”

Sergio, Cesc learns, knows how to suck cock. And he doesn’t know why this is surprising because Sergio’s mouth is made for blowjobs, but he’s still shocked when Sergio laps at the head, locks eyes with Cesc, then takes him in his mouth. His lips don’t quite reach Cesc’s base, but he’s close and Cesc just.

“Oh fuck,” Cesc groans. Sergio pulls back, soaking Cesc’s cock with spit and starting a slow rhythm. He pushes himself too far sometimes and Cesc can feel him gagging, but he doesn’t pull back. Just relaxes his throat and continues. Cesc knows he won’t come like this—Sergio knows, too—but he loves it.

Sergio hooks his hands under Cesc’s knees and presses him back, opens him up. He pulls off Cesc long enough to say, “Can you stay like this?”

Cesc thinks, “I would stay like this for two days if you wanted.”

Sergio draws a finger down Cesc crack, rubs the pad over Cesc’s hole. “You look so good, Cesc.” He presses the tip in, just a bit, just to make Cesc groan, just to make his leg twitch. Then he’s going down, pressing his tongue flat against him, licking long and slow. Cesc’s body jerks up and he pulls his legs apart, tries to roll back a bit more. “So good.”

Sergio flicks his tongue against Cesc’s hole, feels him loosening beneath him, opening. He presses a finger inside, moving slow until Cesc’s asking him for more, pleading. He licks around his finger, fingering his ass quick, but still gently.

Cesc can’t recall a time when he actually wanted to have sex like this, wanted to be taken. Sergio adds another finger, sucks on the inside of Cesc’s thigh until,

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck,” Cesc whispers, his voice hoarse. “I’m sorry, Sergio, I. I didn’t mean to.”

Sergio sits up, eases Cesc’s legs down. His shirt’s damp with come, cock softening. “Don’t be sorry,” Sergio smiles and leans down, cleans Cesc’s cock off with his tongue. “We can finish later, okay?”

Cesc nods, stares up at the ceiling. “I’ve never come without being touched.”

Sergio leans in to kiss his forehead. Cesc reaches for Sergio, presses against his cock, but Sergio stops him, pushes his arms away. “Remember what I said about later?”

“But you’re,” Cesc starts, but Sergio wedges himself between the couch and Cesc, who turns on his side and lets Sergio hold him. “Later,” he says like a promise.

 

Later, in Sergio’s bed, Sergio fingers Cesc until he thinks he’s about to come again, pleading with Sergio to stop. Cesc rides him, slow, deep. And Sergio strokes him firmly, runs his free hand over Cesc’s nipples, up to cup his cheek. “I like watching you,” Sergio says. “Your hips are so.” Sergio smiles and quickens his pace, jerking Cesc off a bit quicker. “Could come just watching you like this.”

“Sergio,” Cesc gasps, trying to rock himself faster on Sergio’s cock. “I need you to—to, fuck.”

And Sergio pushes Cesc back, pushes between his legs, fucks him. “Like this?” He isn’t asking for compliments, but actually asking. Making sure. He grapples between them for Cesc’s cock. “Is this what you want, Cesc? This what you need?”

Cesc opens his mouth to say yes, opens his mouth to kiss Sergio, but he’s coming, jerking down on Sergio’s cock, tilting his head back and gasping. His belly twitches, and his arms flail around, grasp at the sheets; Sergio thrusts through his spasms, thrusts until Cesc collapses on the bed. Then he thrusts shallow, soft, groans low with his orgasm.

When they’re laying on their backs, catching their breath, Sergio asks, “When’s your flight tomorrow?”

Cesc blinks, reaches for Sergio’s hand. “Early.”

Sergio squeezes his fingers. “You can sleep on the plane, yeah?”

Cesc nods. Closes his eyes.

 

Cesc fucks Sergio and it’s early. The sun’s coming up and Sergio’s tight, ridiculously tight. When Cesc comes, his knees go weak and he feels dizzy. He whispers, “God damn.”

Sergio grins.

 

Sergio drives Cesc to the airport. He parks, even though Cesc says he can just drop him off. “I’ll carry your bag,” Sergio says. He stays with Cesc until he absolutely has to check in, then hugs him, says, “Merry Christmas, Cesc,” and kisses his cheek. Cesc knows it’s not a big deal because, even if there were cameras, even if there were people watching, it’s Sergio. And Sergio kisses everyone. It’d be more suspicious if Sergio hadn’t kissed him.

Gerard picks Cesc up from the airport. He hugs Cesc, tight, lifts him off the ground. “How was Madrid?”Cesc knows he means, “How was Iker? Do I need to beat the shit out of him? Because I will.”

“I stayed with Sergio,” Cesc says, just to see Gerard have a miniature freak out.

“You and Iker?” Gerard takes Cesc’s duffle bag and leads him to baggage claim. And Cesc knows he means, “Please tell me you’re done with that shit. Please.”

“I don’t know,” Cesc admits. His phone vibrates. who will i watch the santa clause with? “I think we just need different things.”

Gerard nods, wraps an arm around Cesc’s shoulders. “So, Sergio, huh? What’s his place like? Does he have like fucking Armani wallpaper?”

“He wears slippers that have holes in the heels. It’s cute.”

And Gerard cocks an eyebrow that says, “Oh, Jesus.” He rolls his eyes. Cesc laughs and his heart drops, stutters, races.


End file.
